


Godkiller

by Vyranai



Series: The Tales of Aevella Lavellan [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Fen'Harel never made the Veil, Oh hey and muuuuuurder, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10102208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vyranai/pseuds/Vyranai
Summary: In another world, Fen'Harel was captured and incarcerated before he could erect the Veil.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little idea that's been floating around in word documents for a while. And I seem to adore writing Aevella, haha.

Fen'Harel's Solitude was visible from every part of Arlathan, as it was meant to be; a floating crystalline prison that reminded everyone not-so-subtly the punishment for stepping out of line. For betrayal in the most grievous of ways.

Aevella's legs had at long last started to burn. Guard duty was tedious, but paid fairly well if you managed to land a man generous enough like Lord Dariel. Also, if you were prepared to put in overtime or partake in questionable activities under cover of night with blood running across your knuckles or staining your blade.

The sun had set many hours ago, the moon replacing it shining yellow like a blister in need of lancing. Aevella sighed, flexing her numb toes within her boots; for all its magic, Arlathan never ceased to be bitterly cold when night rolled in. Her stomach gnawed at her, jumping with hope at every small sound coming from within the estate. Apart from that, the city was silent.

Beside her, the sentinel started violently as her stomach snarled once more. “Gods! Can you not silence that infernal racket? It's so loud and offensive.”

Another downside to sentinel duty other than the mind-numbing boredom was the company you sometimes had to endure for hours on end. Aevella didn't know the man's name and didn't care to either. He possessed a gruff voice for an elf. It unnerved her more than the shimmering daggers strapped crossways across his broad back.

“No reply?” The daggers clinked together pleasantly as he twisted towards Aevella, eyes very wide in the dimness.

For the briefest moment she considered ignoring him, but when he laughed softly, a mocking sound, Aevella appraised him with clear disinterest. “I'm not getting paid to talk to a fool.”

“My... underhand insults now?”

“Just a simple observation.” She shifted her footing into one more comfortable, but her hip would still give her grief that night. It always did.

Surely Lord Dariel would not take much longer. This was to be a quick meeting with a fellow Lord, a private conversation before night fell. And that time had been up many hours ago. Aevella had seen the urgency in the Lord's face, his nervous twitches and constant glancing around as he hurried up the steps and into the building. So they were up to something nefarious. Aevella didn't give a shit as long as she received her payment, plus extra for her added hours.

Lord Vunara's home was glorious, set on the western edge of the city with Arlathan's spiral crystal towers casting everything in a soft golden light. There was no true, deep darkness in Arlathan. Not really. Below her aching feet, the stones reflected the aureate glow. It was enough to walk around unaided, but not bright enough to read in. If anything, Lord Vunara's estate seemed like a temple.

As if sensing her impatience, the doors to the manor swung inwards, raised voices spilling out into the night.

“This is folly! I will not risk everything I hold dear for something so... flimsy! A plan with no substance!” Lord Vunara was raging, robes flying behind him in a wave of green.

With a hiss, Lord Dariel caught his friend's arm, wrenching him back. “This is a worthy cause, my friend.”

“Only if you succeed. I will not suffer the consequences if you are caught, I promise you that. I cannot devote myself to this cause more. And take that... that _thing_ far away from here! Far from the city! _They_ think that it is destroyed, shattered into dust.”

“I cannot keep it at my home. They already suspect me. But they would not suspect you, never. I am begging you, as a friend and your old student, to help. Help him and help us all. I risked all to bring it with me today.”

Aevella watched out of the corner of her eye as Lord Vunara caught the other elf's throat, wrenching him close with tightening fingers. “And what if you succeeded? What then?” his hissed softly into his face. “Those that support him are either in deep shadows or dead. We gave ourselves entirely the first time, and only just managed to evade suspicion and capture. He is cursed, locked away in a building none but _they_ have access to.” Lord Vunera thrust a hand towards the sky. “Look with your own eyes and tell me otherwise!”

“Not quite,” Lord Dariel responded softly, not looking upwards. “There is another way. You know which I speak of.”

“You are insane. Finally, you have truly taken leave of your senses.”

“Not insane, just past the point of desperation. The People are suffering, my old friend. They need him back. The man as well as the wolf. We could restore him to glory, to the salvation of the People.”

Fen'Harel, Aevella realized with a quiet jolt. Lord Dariel was an underground supporter of the Dread Wolf. Had he really taken part in the rebellion and still managed to walk free after? It was quite an achievement if so. After Mythal's death and the uprising that followed it, headed by the goddesses good friend and ally, Fen'Harel, war had begun. It had raged for so long Aevella couldn't quite recall who had struck the first blow. But she knew who took the final one; the evidence was in the sky, never to touch the ground. The Dread Wolf had almost succeeded in his attempt to rid the People of the Evanuris, but was betrayed and subsequently captured and subjected to tortures that Aevella didn't even want to think about. Afterwards, a prison had been constructed. A prison that no God could ever escape from, lest they destroy themselves in the process. It was there that Fen'Harel had been placed, whispers of the Gods incarceration spreading like wildfire. They spoke that his Elvhen form had been stripped away to nothing and only the Wolf remained. Figuratively or literally, no one was sure.

Those that betrayed the Gods were subsequently thrown into the glorified cage along with the Wolf. And they were never seen or heard of again.

Lord Dariel closed his eyes, a low groan emanating from his mouth. “The risk would be worth it. We could be free, Vunara. Free to make our own choices without fear weighing us down.”

“Leave this place.” Lord Vunara's sharp eyes found the pair of sentinels. “And if you know what's best for you, silence them.”

Beside Aevella, the guard scoffed, coming to life in one fluid movement. “So easily you speak of my death.” He drew his twin blades and pointed them each at the Lords. “The Lord of Secrets has always known about your betrayals, gentlemen. He was merely waiting for you both to lead him to a prize worth much more than just your heads. The Dread Wolf shall not feast tonight.”

Lord Vunera snarled, letting his friend go at last, only to push him away. “You bring spies here to implement me?!”

Spies. That also included her. Aevella raised her empty hands. “I am not involved in any way,” she told the Lords, wondering if she should flee while she had the chance. There was no way either party was going to allow her to live now. She had seen too much.

The sentinel used the distraction as an opening, spinning with blades in hand; Lord Vunara blasted him away with a shock of ice, teeth bared in an untamed snarl. It seemed to do nothing as the sentinel promptly vanished into the shadows.

Dariel's face whitened. “Dirthamen,” he whispered, more to himself than his peers. “It cannot be-”

A flash of darkness and the next moment, a crimson blade was sticking out of the elf's chest; Aevella spun away, drawing her own daggers with a hiss upon her lips. So Dirthamen walked among them. Let them see if he could indeed bleed.

The shadows materialized a few feet away, the thick guise of the sentinel no more; in his place stood a tall and regal man with skin as dark as the night sky and eyes mere black holes. Though when he grinned, a wild and feral display, his teeth were very white.

Aevella had enough sense to dive out of the way when Vunara sent the first intense blast of magic towards the God, falling down next to Dariel's gasping and bloodied form; he grabbed her wrist and wrenched her palm towards him with surprising strength. “Take it to him-” the Lord whispered, reaching inside of his robes. From within he drew an orb, green with grooves covering the entire circumference. Aevella tried desperately to pull away, but the Lord pushed the orb into her palm.

Aevella's entire world exploded into a swirl of green. The power within the orb rocketed through her veins, tearing apart what magic she had and replacing it with something far more potent and dangerous. She screamed so loud her voice cracked, body seizing up without her consent.

A roar of fury echoed through the square. Who from, she had no idea. Aevella didn't care, the blinding pain tearing up the palm of her hand; the orb suddenly went dark and fell from her hand, smashing upon the ground.

Something collided into her. Hard. Aevella found herself sprawled at the foot of the steps of Vunara's estate, breath stolen from her lungs. “No!” a voice raged, drawing closer; Aevella was pulled from the floor by her throat, hoisted into the air as if she weighed nothing at all. She stared into fathomless eyes, endless and as black as pitch; the God squeezed hard, hand snatching at her wrist.

Aevella fumbled at her hip, desperate. There – her fingers closed around the small dagger she kept hidden upon her person. With a fresh scream, she plunged the blade into the God's back, directly where his heart would be. If he indeed had one.

Dirthamen bellowed in both fury and agony, dropping Aevella immediately. She watched, wide-eyed as the God fell to his knees, blood staining his lips every time he attempted to take a breath. He reached for the dagger, but couldn't. A moment later and he crashed onto his front and went still, a dark stain spreading upon his back from the handle of the dagger.

The Gods could bleed. The Gods could indeed die, and at normal hands. Aevella only just managed to hold onto the meagre contents as her stomach as she heaved, bracing herself against the floor. Dirthamen was dead. She was a Godkiller.

_A Godkiller._

“Run,” Dariel breathed. “Restore us. Take your magic to Fen'Harel. His magic. Save us all.”

Aevella turned and ran.


End file.
